


In the Neighborhood

by falconeri



Series: From Hitting You to Hitting on You [1]
Category: The Rookie (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, I say as I continue to write this, I should really apologize for putting these characters through this, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Protective Tim Bradford, Worried Tim Bradford, that's an existing tag already what does that say about what we do to these poor characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 01:48:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falconeri/pseuds/falconeri
Summary: At school, Lucy seems like she has it all- always on time, always with the best grade in the class, and she has two best friends in John and Jackson.Tim Bradford couldn't be more different. A few grades above and the next door neighbor of Lucy, his performance in school is abysmal, and he finds himself in trouble frequently.How do these two supposed opposites befriend each other? Both are hiding their abuse.
Relationships: Lucy Chen & Jackson West, Tim Bradford & Angela Lopez, Tim Bradford & Lucy Chen, Tim Bradford/Lucy Chen
Series: From Hitting You to Hitting on You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2217654
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	1. Who was that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still in the process of editing Chapter 3 of "When I Kissed the Teacher," but this idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone.  
> So this is a short chapter that somewhat sets the scene. Later chapters should be longer- that's my goal, at least.
> 
> Trigger warnings this chapter: referenced child abuse

The first time they met was an accident, he ran into her- literally ran into her. 

Five year old Lucy Chen was hunched over, sitting on the sidewalk, as tears made their way down her face after yet another "disagreement" with her parents. The hand not rubbing at her eyes tightly clutched a slightly crumpled worksheet covered in red pen. 

Eight year old Tim Bradford had been, as he sometimes joked with his best friends, running from his problems. Really, he was running from one problem in particular- his father. He knew it was going to be a bad day the second he unlocked the door to his house after school, and was met with his father's thunderous glare and booming voice. The man had a hair trigger, and Tim Bradford was no stranger to being on the other end. In fact, he was sure there would be a bruise blooming over his eye come morning- he'd claim it came from missing a catch playing baseball, or that he accidentally bumped into a cabinet corner; excuses that everyone but his closest friends were willing to accept.    
  


He saw her small, shaking figure after it was too late- next he knew he was landing in the grass face first; rolling over and opening his eyes, the first thing he saw upon was a very concerned kindergartener peering over his face. Tim was glad he had no startle response to things like that anymore- the kid looked rough, like she'd been crying, and though Tim suspected  _ he  _ wasn’t the cause, he just had to make sure.

"I'm sorry for running into you," he said genuinely, pushing himself up and sitting on the grass, legs extended. "Did I hurt you?" He asked, concerned, then added "looks like you were crying" with a shrug to justify his line of questioning. 

Lucy sat down in the grass next to him, copying his position. " _ You _ didn't hurt me," she said, "pinky promise." As Tim hooked his pinky with hers, he couldn't help but notice her emphasis on the word "you." He doubted she was even aware that she did that, but it did tell him something about the girl. 

"So then who did?" He asked bluntly, she looked like she was about to up and bolt in response to his question, and he was quick to soothe her. "Nevermind," he said in a gentler voice, "I'm not going to pry. Just know this- I'm safe. I know it might be hard to believe right now, especially after literally hitting you on my run," he flashed a small grin and was rewarded with a quiet giggle from the girl, "but I am a safe person." 

He felt Lucy's eyes scan his face for any sign of a lie, her body posture tense. She must have decided to believe him, because she went back to looking at the same nothing he was staring at, her posture a little more relaxed, though the way she held herself spoke to the experience of having her posture commented on and corrected. "I'm Lucy," she said, settling so that she was propped up on her elbows with her legs straight ahead, once again mimicking his posture. 

He shifted so he was sitting cross-legged in the grass, facing her, and watched as she hurried to replicate his position. "I'm Tim," he said, and then let a comfortable silence wash over the pair for a while. 

Lucy was no stranger to what he was doing- her parents, both psychologists, used the trick all the time; if you sit with someone in silence, they'll break and begin talking. She briefly considered trying to outlast him in silent anger, she wanted to beat him at his own game. Instead, she fixed him with a glare, "I thought you said you were safe," she accused, eyes narrowed. 

The statement caught Tim by surprise- he had done literally nothing since introducing himself, so why did she suddenly think he was unsafe? He nearly recoiled- the fear of turning into his father rising to the surface. 

“I am,” he said- he didn’t register his aggressive tone, too caught up in his thoughts of being considered unsafe, until Lucy got up to leave, saying,

“No you’re not. You do the same things they do,” as she turned around to leave. 

“Lucy, wait!” he called after her, but the younger girl was determined to find somewhere else, somewhere safer than the sidewalk by the front yard. Retreating to a small hiking trail, she followed the trail until she hit the blue marker, and disappeared into the trees, following a path that she had made herself. 

* * *

_ She didn’t look for the spot intentionally; her parents took her on a hike here once, though never again after she ran into the trees in response to her father’s loud disagreement about her athletic inclination. She knew he was wrong, that she could run and play sports, so she ran into the trees to prove it. Originally she heard her parents yelling after her, threatening her to return to them immediately. Continuing to run, she had trampled over branches and tripped over logs, eventually losing their voices (or maybe they stopped calling out for her) to the trees. Venturing deeper into the trees, she saw a patch of light in the distance. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but tripping over logs was starting to bother her- her knees stung from scratches that hadn’t been tended to. So, she followed the light, pleased when she realized that no path ever led there. She wondered if anyone knew about it, deciding probably not- if they did, surely a path would lead here. It was too beautiful not to show people, but for now, it was Lucy’s secret.  _

_ It was a small clearing, but it was beautiful. The field was full of wildflowers, but there were still boulders around on patches of grass that made for good sitting and thinking spots. Against the wall of trees opposite the path she came from ran a small stream, sunlight reflecting off its lazily moving water. There were boulders in the middle of it, logs she had to use as a balance beam to get there (she used to fall often, but had since improved her balance. Take that, father who thought she had the athletic potential of a peanut.) Those boulders were the  _ really  _ good thinking spots. Or not thinking spots, when she wanted nothing more than to lose herself to the sound of water running through the stream.  _

She decided that day was a stream day, she had  _ a lot _ to think about. Traversing the small clearing, she took off her shoes and socks, laying them on dry land before venturing to one of the logs that would take her to a boulder. Carefully putting one foot in front of the other, tongue sticking out to the side in intense concentration, she made it over the log without slipping, and took her customary spot on a boulder. 

_ Who was that boy? _ was her first thought, followed by,  _ and why does he want to hurt me? _ Though she supposed there was no reason needed other than some people are just bad people; she couldn’t think of something she’d done to warrant the hurtful things her parents had said to her. Pulling out the now very crumpled assignment, she looked over it, though this time it was blurry as her eyes filled with tears again. She had half the mind to throw it into the river and be done with it, but her parents had already seen it, and she knew that later that night she’d be redoing the problems and writing an apology note to hand to her teacher the next day.

* * *

Tim had sat in the grass, surprised, as he watched the girl speed away- he wasn’t going to follow her, that would only make her feel less safe- he should know as much. Confused about the interaction, he laid on his back, staring absently at the clouds, as he thought more about the enigmatic kindergartner.  _ Who was that girl? _ was his first thought, followed by  _ and why did she think I wanted to hurt her? _

He knew one thing for sure: someone had hurt her, or, more likely, repeatedly hurt her. He was observational- he had to be, to survive living in his “ _ chaotic”  _ household. Thinking back, he inventoried his thoughts about the smaller girl, trying to put together the mystery in his mind.    
Clue 1: She had been crying before he ran into her   
Clue 2: She was holding a worksheet covered in red pen

Clue 3: She had been quick to mimic his position as best she could

Clue 4: She said  _ he  _ hadn’t hurt her, which was pretty much acknowledging that someone else did

Clue 5: She had said he was using the same tricks “they” used on her

If she was just crying and holding a marked-up worksheet, he could believe that a bad grade was the cause of the tears- though kindergartners shouldn’t be worried about grades, should they? Regardless, her obvious fear and slight admission that someone was hurting her confirmed his theory. 

He thought someone was hurting Lucy, maybe the same was his father hurt him. Thinking back on the small girl with wide eyes, he felt a sense of protectiveness over her. He had learned how to live through the abuse, and he was not going to make her figure it out on her own- not while he could help it, at least.


	2. Chapter 2: Yours hurt you too?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running a hand through his short, spiked up hair, he nodded. “My bruises,” he pointed to his eye, “those fade quickly enough. Some leave scars you can see,” he pushed up his sleeve to show a barely-there scratch pattern, “that was from a broken bottle. The physical injury is almost totally gone, but the experience stayed with me still, like a scar that didn’t fade. I’ve got a handful of visible scars, but most of mine you can’t see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for descriptions of child abuse (verbal, emotional, and physical) in addition to more detailed depictions of those types of abuse. For those who are sensitive to this material, know that the graphic parts happen after the first line break. If you want to skip this chapter entirely, a summary will be in the end notes.

The second time they met was intentional, though Tim felt like a stalker as he tried to “accidentally” bump into Lucy to gain her attention three days after his initial encounter with her. His tactics worked, however. He got her attention, though she didn’t seem to be happy about it; pulling him to the side to allow others to continue walking, Lucy crossed her arms and glared at the older boy. 

“Uh, hey Lucy,” he started, trying to think of the words he had recited in his head over and over again, coming up blank. So instead, he just took it moment-by-moment. “I’m sorry about the other day,” he said, and knew he had to be careful of how he worded things, since they could so easily be misread, “I honestly don’t know what I did. I swear, I’m not just playing dumb or trying to make you seem like you’re crazy,” lord knew he knew what  _ that  _ felt like all too well, “If you tell me what it was, I can make sure it never happens again,”

Lucy sized the boy up, squinting at his face, looking for something unknown to him. Deciding he was being genuine, she nodded. “I think you’re telling the truth,” she said. 

“I pinky swear it,” Tim said seriously, holding out his pinky as he said so. “Will you explain to me what went wrong?”

Lucy bit her lip and nodded, then gestured for him to follow her as she continued walking. As soon as he caught up to her, she said quietly, “Not here.” 

This time, it was Tim’s turn to nod- if what Lucy was about to explain was what he expected, he wouldn’t want any nosey ears around either. The pair broke off from the throng of children walking home at an old neighborhood playground; abandoned at that time of day. He followed her to the set of two swings, sitting down on the swing she hadn’t claimed. 

As soon as he did, she asked him for good measure, “You’re sure you’re not here to hurt me?” The amount of distrust showed on her small features, and Tim was quick to reassure her that his only intention was to make sure he  _ didn’t  _ do such a thing. 

Once he had confirmed that, Lucy took a deep breath, then seemed to deflate. After a moment, she mumbled, “The sitting in quiet thing is something psychologists do.”    
  
“Okay…?” Tim drew the word out, his voice slightly lifting at the end to indicate an unvoiced question. 

“It’s supposed to be so uncomfortable that someone will start talking,” she said, and then quietly under her breath, “or you outlast them and get in trouble for something later.” She seemed to be speaking from personal experience, and he nodded. 

“I wasn’t trying to do that to you,” he was quick to reassure. 

She looked at him critically for a moment before nodding her head. “My parents are psychologists,” she further explained, and it clicked for Tim. “I’m used to tricks like that. Tricks that are supposed to make me say what they want.” Tim winced, she sounded so much older than her physical age, probably for the same reason he often felt older than his peers. 

Nodding, Tim thought about what to say, panicking a little under the pressure of having to respond quickly lest the same thing happen as the other day. He didn’t want to push her into panic or scare her away, so instead he settled on telling her part of his truth. “See my shiner?” he asked, pointing to his eye where a nasty looking bruise was beginning to fade, “Everyone thinks I missed a baseball catch and just happened to be unlucky enough to be hit in the eye. But it wasn’t a baseball,” his faltered through that last sentence, and could only mumble the next part, “it was my Dad.” 

Lucy turned to him, her face carefully schooled into neutrality, though somehow Tim could detect some surprise. Not knowing a more eloquent way to put it, she whispered, “your parents hurt you?”

Tim nodded, “They do.” He looked at her carefully, trying to see when he should ask, “the mind things your parents do, the ones that hurt you… do they do that intentionally?” 

This time, Lucy nodded and echoed Tim’s “they do.”

“You know…” Tim faltered again, trying to generate the words that he couldn’t even believe himself some days, “What they do to you is wrong.”

She shrugged, “They don’t hurt me,” she wouldn’t look at him as she gently swung back and forth.

“Just because it doesn’t leave bruises doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” he countered, “Sure, my eye hurt, but…” he took a deep breath, making the choice to trust this girl he only met the other day- he didn’t know why, but he had a good feeling about her, “but the words that came with it, those hurt more,” he shrugged a little, “sometimes, the hurt you feel isn’t visible to others. Well,” he said, with an almost bitter laugh, “or they choose to pretend like they don’t see it.” That’s been the story of his life in the school system, at least. 

Lucy chewed on the older boy’s words for a moment, before slowly nodding as understanding dawned on her. Just because it wasn’t the visible type of hurt, the type she heard about on the news or even the type her parents sometimes talked about, their clients who were abused kids- all the abuse she knew of was hitting and kicking and things like that. Not words, those weren’t visual, but Tim was right… it still hurt. “It’s normal to feel hurt?” she asked for further clarification, to which Tim nodded. 

Running a hand through his short, spiked up hair, he nodded. “My bruises,” he pointed to his eye, “those fade quickly enough. Some leave scars you can see,” he pushed up his sleeve to show a barely-there scratch pattern, “that was from a broken bottle. The physical injury is almost totally gone, but the experience stayed with me still, like a scar that didn’t fade. I’ve got a handful of visible scars, but most of mine you can’t see.”

Lucy nodded again, “mine too,” she said softly, starting to swing higher. Tim joined her, and this time, the silence wasn’t offputting. She didn’t think he was trying to deceive her, and for reasons she couldn’t articulate, she trusted Tim; felt safe with him even. 

Soon, too soon, the sun started to set. Tim sighed, stopping his swing slowly as he said “we should probably walk back home.” He knew what would await him on the other side of his house’s front door, and dreaded returning to it- if he were lucky, his father would be nowhere in sight, he wouldn’t know that Tim came home late. 

Lucy reluctantly stopped swinging, and in a moment of childness (Tim thought it was terribly sad that the five year old girl only had brief moments of being able to act like a kid) pouted, “I don’t want to go home.”

“Trust me kid, me neither,” Tim said, picking up his backpack from the ground and heading back to the sidewalk with Lucy. They walked together, both stuck in their own thoughts of their friendship and worries of what awaited them when they did finally return home. At first, Tim didn’t notice that Lucy was still tagging along with him as he peeled away from the main street and walked down his. The only thing that alerted him to her presence was when she coughed, once- she was incredibly light on her feet, Tim very quickly learned to realize. 

He looked at her quizzically, “you know, you do need to go back home,” he said. 

“I am,” she said, confusion clear in her voice and facial expression. 

It took him a second but, “wait, where do you live?” he asked. He didn’t know from the other day- she didn’t run home, she ran off elsewhere. His jaw nearly hit the floor when she pointed to the house next to his- how had there been a kid there that he never knew about? He had never seen her around until he bumped into her. He pointed to his house, “that one is mine.”

“You live next door?”

“I guess I do.”

Sooner than either would have liked, they reached their respective houses, and parted. “Good luck,” Tim said, trying to joke, but both his voice and the joke fell flat. Trying to dissipate the awkwardness of his last comment, he asked her, “You walking home with me tomorrow?”

She gave him a small smile and nodded, “Yes.”

“Good, get there early,” he grinned at her, “we can hang out longer.”

“Okay,” she said with a small laugh as he turned around with a genuine smile and then walked away towards his own door.

* * *

It wasn’t like Tim didn’t see this coming, he had just hoped he could avoid it somehow. But no, his father was home, waiting for Tim, and angry that the boy came home late without notifying him that would be the case. So, Tim tried to ease open the squeaky door slowly, quietly, but he would have never succeeded in sneaking in given his father’s presence, waiting by the door. 

So, Tim tried to play it casual. “Hi Pops,” he said, walking by his dad, “school was good today, how was work?” His hopes for that plan working fell quickly as his father stood up off the sofa and grabbed Tim’s arm with no restraint in force. Tim tried not to wince as he felt the nails of his father dig into his skin as he was held less than a foot away from his father’s fury.

“Where the hell were you?!” he thundered, not letting Tim answer before forcefully saying “not here, where you were  _ needed. _ ” Tim had long ago learned how to school his face as to not roll his eyes, knowing that would only get him more shiners. So, he mentally rolled his eyes as he waited for his father to tell him why he was so  _ needed  _ there. 

He didn’t let Tim get a word in before continuing on, “I know you weren’t at practice, you’re not in season in the spring, so  _ where the hell were you? _ ” He all but roared the final question at Tim, who unflinchingly responded “I helped walk a little kid home.” There, that was close enough to the truth without incriminating himself, or Lucy, for having deep conversations about their crappy home life. 

“Noble,” his father mocked, “next time, skip helping the kids and come help here, where you’re needed!”

_ Needed to be a punching bag,  _ Tim thought as his father’s fist collided with his side, making him double over and cough.

“Can’t even take that like a man,” his father continued to mock him as he landed several more blows to Tim’s side before seeming to let the boy up. Relieved, Tim began to walk away until he heard “where the hell do you think you’re going!” from behind him, followed by a blow to the back of his knees that dropped him to the ground. 

For what Tim supposed was “good measure,” his father kicked his sides repeatedly until he was curled up on the ground in pain. He kept his eyes shut, willing the tears not to come, knowing that would only make things worse. But his normally ironclad floodgates were being rapidly beaten down by his father, and Tim found it harder than usual to restrain the tears. Finally, his father got tired of kicking him, and scoffed at the curled up body of his son on the floor. 

“Pathetic,” he basically spat at Tim, “You can explain to your mother why it’s your fault that dinner is late.”

Tim didn’t think his mother would care much, given that she was more-than-probably passed out from some drugs somewhere in the house. But in the interest of not peeing blood later, Tim kept his mouth shut. With a poorly-concealed wince, he got to his feet and headed towards the kitchen, hoping he’d had time later to get around to his homework- he was hoping that his father was working the night of parent-teacher conferences, because he did  _ not  _ want to know the repercussions of his poor performance in school. It didn’t matter that it was mostly a poor performance because: one, Tim couldn’t learn and sit still at the same time, which got him into trouble on more than one occasion, and two, not turning in homework really hurt his grades. The latter was objectively his father’s fault, between making him work around the house and using him as a personal punching bag, Tim didn’t have the time or energy to complete most of the assignments. So, he chose the interesting ones or the short ones, a pattern his teacher noticed and had a talk with him about doing  _ all  _ the work, instead of being lazy. He had wanted nothing more than to yell “I’m not lazy!” to the teacher, he wanted nothing more than to share why exactly that was his “work ethic.” 

But he knew better. He knew what his options were- if he told, social services would show up. If his dad charmed them enough into leaving, he’d get the beating of his life afterwards. If he didn’t, well, Tim knew he would be removed from the house. And while that thought was appealing, the thought of having to leave his entire life- switching schools, never seeing his friends again, and, not to mention, he’d be leaving his mother alone with his father’s temper- all made sure he kept his mouth shut, just the way his father expected him to. 

Gingerly walking to the kitchen, he opened the fridge, hoping to find something salvageable into a meal. He sighed as he saw the mostly-empty fridge; he didn’t live close to a grocery store, and lord only knew when his father might deign to go grocery shopping. Finding meat that… should still be good? in the fridge and some tomato sauce, Tim got to work making sloppy joes. He was eight, what else did people think he could cook? In actuality, he was good at being creative to get food on the table on time for dinner. Steaming broccoli as a green side, he prepared dinner and set the table, only then finding his mother and father to alert them that dinner was ready.

He was right, his mother was passed out. Even shaking her didn’t wake her, though at least the steady rise and fall of her chest showed him that she was still breathing. He shrugged, knowing there wasn’t much he could do, and scrambled to meet his father downstairs. 

Dinner was a quiet affair for the most part; aside from some negative comments about Tim’s cooking prowess and general person, he and his father ate in silence. Well, he ate. His father ate  _ and  _ consumed a copious amount of gin and tonics, Tim increasingly dreaded the rest of the night as he watched his father down drink after drink after drink.  _ Because he was unpredictable enough without liquor,  _ Tim thought sarcastically, bitterly. 

Tim finished eating before his father did, so he sat at the table and didn’t say a sound- at one point, he had tried to rehearse facts he needed to know for school in his brain, but not being able to move really wasn’t conducive to that task. So instead he sat, waiting, as a feeling of dread built up with each passing moment. 

Not a second too soon, his father finished dinner with a loud belch, went to go make himself yet  _ another  _ drink, and went off to watch the news at an absurdly high volume, leaving Tim with the clean-up, as always. Washing each dish, pan, and utensil carefully (he didn’t want to see his father’s reaction to dropping a plate) and setting them on the drying rack, he finished up in the kitchen and managed to make his way to his room unnoticed. 

There, he beelined for the shower. Waiting for the water to heat up, he looked at his most recent wounds, some of them purpling into bruises already. He got into the shower as soon right after, not even caring that the water was still cold.

* * *

Lucy opened the door to two furious adults; to the casual passerby, it would look like they were worried, but she could see right through their facade and see their rage. She wasn’t looking forward to what was next. She knew the boiling anger that was, at the moment, contained, very well. She wished she could turn around and run to her safe place in the woods, but her father had already roughly grabbed her arm to bring him face-to-face so he could begin his lecture whilst her mother quickly locked the door behind her, sliding the deadbolt into place and then Lucy didn’t see the key to the front door after that. 

“Do you have no idea how worried we were,” her father started, getting into her face and yelling the words, “you didn’t come home until it got dark out, and we didn’t know where you were or with who.” 

“I was at the playground,” she said, though too late, and deliberately leaving Tim out of it- he had a small reputation as a troublemaker, and Lucy didn’t want her parents to refuse to let her see him again.

Her response was too little, too late, as her mom chimed in, also yelling about how they need to know where she is at all times and how they needed phone numbers for anyone she’s spending time with. 

Lucy maintained her composure- not easily, it was hard to maintain composure when someone was holding you down and screaming in your face. 

She felt her mind drift up towards the ceiling, and hoped Tim was having a better night than she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Tim bumps into Lucy again, albeit intentionally this time. He apologizes, and they confide in each other about the abuse they're going through. When they return home:  
> 1\. Tim's dad is livid and physically harms Tim before making him do the housework  
> 2\. Lucy's parents are angry that she stayed out so long, and yell at her (unable to escape) once she gets home


End file.
